


The Lost Lore of Gondor

by literati42



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Faramir, Child Abuse, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Faramir needs a hug, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queer Themes, Romance, Slow Burn, Trans Éomer, Young Faramir, Young Éomer, Éomer gives good hugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29454399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literati42/pseuds/literati42
Summary: Two young men, growing up in very different kingdoms, slowly unravel the truth of who they are. They follow the paths this journey leads them on, but will it ultimately lead to each other?Faramir, growing up in strict Gondor, slowly discovers he does not have the desires expected of him. Éomer, growing up in free Rohan, explores what it means to be a son and nephew.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 28





	1. Stories Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> Written by request for the amazing and ever support @lauren_lashley on twitter <3  
> Prompt: Ace Faramir/trans Éomer
> 
> Hi friends! This is my first long fic for the fandom, and I hope you enjoy it! Come join me on twitter for more LOTR fanning @themythofpsyche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter art by the amazing @shinnewn on twitter <3

The siblings of Rohan rode side by side across the rise and fall of hills. Éowyn stopped at the top, tipping her water skin and drinking deeply. He watched her silently, thoughts warring with each other for purchase in his mind.

“I can hear you concentrating,” Éowyn said, turning to him, “You have been unusually silent and you’re thinking so hard it seems to pain you. Out with it, sister.”

He flinched slightly, “I heard Uncle speaking of our parents dying without an oldest son.”

“Foolish talk,” Éowyn said, shaking her head, “What difference does it make, a son, a daughter. Do we not have brains and muscles the same?”

“Éowyn,” he said, “What if they did not die without a son?”

She stopped in her rant and focused on him, “Did they not?”

“I would…I would like it very much if…you called me Éomer.”

Éowyn watched him and then smiled, “Alright, brother Éomer.”

“It does not bother you?” He asked.

Éowyn reached over and squeezed his hand. “Not at all.” Then a wicked smile crossed her face, “I can beat you in a race just the same.”

Éomer felt an incredible lightness in his chest, light enough that it came out in a laugh. “Only because you cheat.”

“So we shall see, brother mine.” Éowyn leaned over her horse’s neck and kicked her heels into the mount’s side. Éomer called out in frustration and chased after her. Their laughter mixed with the pounding of their horses' hooves. It was a sound so merry and so of Rohan that it brought a smile to everyone they passed.

_-_-_

Faramir sat on the low stone wall, a book propped on one skinny knee, his other leg dangling. Every once in a while he kicked his heel back against the stone. He was thirteen, all bones and angles, with not a scrap of muscle. He tilted his head to the side, parsing his way through a thick volume in Elvish.

“Careful young master,” one of the guards said as several of them walked past. Faramir looked up and saw Beregond. He was a young member of the guard, but already distinguishing himself, and he always had a kind word to say to the younger Stewart’s son. “I have heard all studying with not enough fun leads to loss of vision and worse.” The guard stopped and leaned on the wall beside him.

“Worse?” Faramir asked him.

“Yes, worst of all it leads to a severe lack of enjoyment,” Beregond replied. “It can be terminal.”

Faramir smiled slightly, “I promise you, Beregond, I am having fun.”  
Beregond tilted up the corner of the back and raised his eyebrow, “Translating books from Elvish?”

Young Faramir pulled the book back, dipping his head slightly.

“No,” Beregond said, his tone warm and full of laughter, “I can see you do enjoy it. I will not trouble you.”

“What are you not troubling my little brother about, Beregond?” Boromir asked, approaching. He pulled himself up on the wall beside Faramir and glanced over.

“Merely on his choice of how to spend a sunny day,” Beregond replied, “But Lord Faramir is unlocking the secrets of the world.”  
“Hardly,” Faramir replied.

Boromir smiled at his brother and bumped his shoulder fondly, “And have you finished translating it yet?”

“I have not,” Faramir replied.

“Then you cannot be sure it does not contain the secrets to the world,” Boromir replied. This finally made Faramir give a quiet laugh as he hid behind his hand. Boromir went on talking, “And where was Beregond going to spend his free time on this sunny day since I take it you will not be in translating Elvish?”

“Some of the men are headed to the tavern to celebrate our return,” Beregond replied. “Will you care to join us, my lord?”

“Aye, yes,” Boromir replied, he looked at Faramir. “How about you, little brother. You can read as well at a tavern as on a wall.”

Faramir finally looked up, “In what way?”

Beregond laughed, his tone surprised, but Boromir just threw his arm around Faramir. “Come, little brother. I need company and you need to stretch your legs before you become a statue.” Boromir pulled him off the wall with him and nodded for Beregond to lead. Faramir did not fight, letting his brother led him along. He listened as Beregond and Boromir fell into an easy back and forth. Boromir had that way with people, he seemed to navigate them as easily as he navigated a battlefield. It was a talent that felt so foreign to Faramir.

Soon, several more guards fell in with them, and they fell immediately into Boromir’s story. He had them laughing before they had gone ten paces. Then their talk turned from battlefields to the women they were home to see or hoping to find.

“Do not tell me you are entrapped,” one guard teased another.

“Oh but he loves the fair, Merina,” said another, “It is easy to see why he could turn his eye nowhere else.”

They shoved each other in response. Faramir watched them, frowning slightly, as he looked back and forth between them.

“You forget yourselves,” Beregond said, “Or do you intend to corrupt young Faramir.”

Faramir tensed as attention went to him.

“Oh he is not so young as that, Beregond,” one of the guards said.

“Yes, Lord Faramir, tell us. Has your eye already been caught?”

Faramir stilled further, tense under Boromir’s arm. He felt his brother’s eyes go to him and then the older waved his hand at them. “Enough, you can hardly initiate Faramir into your order of debauchery before he is even old enough to be a guard.” He kept his tone playful, but clear and the men responded as they were meant, turning their teasing back to each other. The air never lost its ease around him, but Faramir could not find it in him to relax.

When they got to the tavern, he felt Boromir stop him short of going in. “Go on,” he said to Beregond and the rowdy guards, “We will be along before you have time to drink the place dry.” When they all had gone, Faramir found his brother’s eyes on him. “How about we climb?”

“Climb?” Faramir frowned. It was not so strange a request on its face. Boromir and he had spent many childhood days climbing rocks and towers and exploring. They always seemed to end up where they ought not be, but Boromir was five years his senior and a soldier now. While he always made time for Faramir, they hardly had whole days to spend exploring of late. Boromir nodded to the roof of the tavern. Then before Faramir could respond, the older son was finding handholds on the stone wall and climbing toward the roof of tavern. Faramir studied the wall for a moment before making his own way up.

He pulled himself up onto the slanted roof to find Boromir already sitting there, staring out over the city that sloped down away from them. Faramir frowned as he crawled up to perch beside his brother. “Is something wrong?”

“Father hasn’t talked to you about any of that,” Boromir said, and it was not a question. Faramir did not need to clarify what he meant. He stared forward, tugging at the corner of his tunic absently.

“Father does not talk to me at all.”

He felt Boromir’s hand gently squeeze his arm. “He did not talk to me either, of the ways of men and women. I learned it from the older guards.” Boromir massaged the bridge between his nose, “So, as you can imagine it was a journey to discover what was accurate and what was…” Boromir stared up into the sky, “an exaggeration is the kindest way to put it.”

Young Faramir hugged his knee, and something in his movement seemed to bring Boromir’s focus back.

“It is becoming clear to me you are at an age where you may have rising questions.” He squeezed Faramir’s shoulder, “You need never fear asking them of me.”

Faramir did not look at his brother, just rested his chin on his knee, “And if I do not have questions?”

“Oh,” Boromir said, letting his hand drop away, “That is alright.”

Finally, Faramir glanced over to read his brother’s face, “It is not strange that I do not…think of these things?”

“No,” Boromir said, “You are young yet, little brother.”

“But you had questions at my age?” Faramir asked.

Boromir shrugged, “Perhaps it is for elder brothers to blaze paths and for little brothers to make their own pace.” He squeezed Faramir’s shoulder again. “Come inside? It seems the guards are already quite fond of you.”

Faramir hugged the book to his chest. “I may just stay up here and read for a while.”

Boromir nodded, ruffling his brother’s hair. “Come in before dark or I will be forced to mount a rescue.”

Faramir gave him a bare smile in return, but once Boromir was climbing back down, the smile slid from his face. He did not return to the book, losing himself in swirling thoughts as he watched the sky darken.

_-_-_

Éomer stood on the training field, grunting as his sword clanged against one of the Rider’s.

“Come on, brother!” Éowyn called from the side-lines, “Watch your footwork.”  
“Watch your own footwork, I am focusing!” Éomer called back. The Rohirrim smiled.

“You should listen to your sister,” he replied before he kicked Éomer’s feet out from under him. The teenager fell to the ground in a clang of armor, hitting hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.

He saw Éowyn’s face leaning into his field of vision, “How’s the pride feeling, down there, brother?” she asked, he glared, but for both, it was in jest. He let her pull him up and the Rohirrim laughed, mirth filling the training space.

“You are improving. One day you will distinguish yourself well among the Rohirrim,” he said. Éomer lifted his chin.

“Oh I will,” he agreed, even as the praise filled his chest.

“Now how about your sister,” the man said, turning to her, “Does the lady wish to spar.”

“Only if your pride can handle it,” she replied as Éomer offered her his sword. He stepped back and let Éowyn take her spot, going to the sidelines to watch her. She was small still, but fleet of foot, and few warriors had a mind for battle like his sister.

Éomer sat on the grass, letting the sun’s rays fill him. The Rohirrim were riders at heart, everything about their ethos grew naturally from their understanding of horses. The freedom, the absolute abandon, a rider felt when horse and rider gained perfect symbiotic connection was a feeling they chased in all things. Perhaps that too was why Rohan, unlike its closest ally, created space for people who did not conform to what Kingdom’s like Gondor would call “normal.” For a people who chase abandon and seek a complete lack of self-consciousness, letting people be who they are and love who they love fit.

Éomer fit.

His uncle was not perfect, but he had worked hard to make sure Éomer knew he was loved. The Rohirrim welcomed him easily. He came to learn there were other Rohirrim like him. It was not perfect, but it was good. Little by little, as the days increased where people got his name right and called him “him,” the fear that existed when he first stepped out as Éomer publicly eased. In Rohan at least, he knew he would always be welcome.

_-_-_

Fifteen year old Faramir curled up in the archive, hiding behind dusty shelves as he tried to focus. The words on the page swam as his eyes filled with tears. He pulled back a shuddering breath, trying to contain the flood of pain.

“Ah, I do not remember that as a particularly sad poem, though, I have often been brought to tears by a lovely verse as well.”

Faramir looked up to see the wizard standing between two piles of tomes. “Mithrandir,” Faramir said, stumbling up to his feet. The grey wizard frowned, taking a step closer.

“Have you been on the training fields, young Faramir?” Gandalf walked over, reaching a hand to tilt Faramir’s chin up so he could look down at his face. Faramir stilled, but could not meet the wizard’s eye. He knew what Gandalf would see the bruise blossoming below his eye.

“An accident only, Mithrandir.”

Gandalf made a soft hmm and Faramir knew he saw more than was said. It was folly to try and hide from a wizard, but the older man released him and took a seat. Faramir went back to his own spot, “Was there a book you needed, Mithrandir?”

“Oh a book?” Gandalf said, shaking his head, “No child. I heard the stewart’s younger son frequently hid in the archives and I was curious.”

“Curious about me?” Faramir replied.

“Curious to see if you yet had the same sense of wonder I remembered of old.” Gandalf smiled at him, and Faramir felt the warmth of it in his chest. “It is so easy for the world to snuff what light of wonder exists, but it is a rare gift and it comes naturally to so few. It would be a true strike against the darkness if you were to never lose it.”

Faramir ducked his head, “Wonder is not what is required for a son of Gondor. It is for us to be leaders of men, fighters holding back the darkness from overtaking the world.”

“And you do that with a legacy of violence do you?” Gandalf asked, pointing toward Faramir’s face. The young man raised a hand to cover the bruise. “Is that the lesson your father attempts to impart?”

Faramir’s shoulders sunk. “I endeavor not to be a disappointment to him.” When he looked back up he found Gandalf looking at him with almost unbearably soft eyes.

“Your father does not know what virtue he has in both his sons,” Gandalf replied. “Do not forget it Faramir. What you bring to this world is important, as important as the strength of your brother. Do not lose the light within you.”

“Faramir!” Boromir’s voice echoed through the archive, shattering the fragile quiet around them. He came rushing over to the desk, his eyes wild with concern. He glanced briefly at Gandalf, eyes narrowing in confusion, before focusing back on Faramir. He saw the exact moment his brother’s eyes landed on the bruise on his face, the way Boromir’s eyes widened. He came over immediately, grabbing Faramir’s chin. “Have you gone to the house of healing?”

“It is a bruise only, brother,” Faramir replied.

“I will leave you to each other,” Gandalf said, “Thank you for your help with the book, Faramir.” Faramir turned to watch him leave with no such book. Boromir watched as well beside him, waiting until Gandalf was passed a place where he could hear before continuing.

“There is a mark from his ring,” Boromir said, his anger bubbling under his words. Faramir pulled back.

“I did not mean to antagonize him.”

“And what lesson was father teaching today?”

Faramir could hardly look up, his brother’s tone was too dark. He felt paralyzed and cold, standing there under Boromir’s scrutiny. Then the traitorous tears returned. Faramir brushed at them roughly, not caring when it pulled at the bruise. Boromir took him by the arms and Faramir finally looked up. The fury was still there, but the worry and protectiveness was warring with it in Boromir’s features.

“I can handle father,” Faramir said, the words choked out past tears. “I will endeavor to be better for him.”  
“Faramir,” Boromir said, his tone breaking, “Please, what did father say?”

Shame burned inside of Faramir, its fire twisting down into his gut. “I cannot…” He turned to leave, but Boromir—wonderful, stubborn Boromir—followed at his heel. Faramir did not stop until they left the dark of the archive and went out into the sunlight. He paused, steps faltering. He had nowhere he intended to go. Boromir’s hand landed gently on his shoulder.

“Why don’t we go to the practice fields?”

Faramir nodded and they walked together in silence. Boromir did not speak again until they were approaching the fields. “Do you trust me, brother?”

Faramir’s eyes whipped up, “With my life.”

Boromir just nodded, staring ahead. “And do you believe me honest?”

“Yes, your integrity is well known, to me and all who cross your path,” Faramir replied. Boromir looked over at him.

“Then if you tell me what father said, I can tell you whether the censor has warranted,” Boromir said, “And you will know if it be true.”

The younger stewart’s son felt his shoulder sink. “That you would mean your words, I believe, but brother, you are deeply biased in my favor.”

“Who wouldn’t be biased in the young lord’s favor?” Beregond’s voice came from behind them. He had grown into his muscles over the years, a warrior in every way. He paused at the doorway and frowned, “You sustained an injury at practice?” he asked, eyebrow raised slightly.

“Not at practice,” Faramir replied. He knew Beregond would know he had not been at the practice fields that day.

“May I?” Beregond asked, stepping closer. Faramir nodded and the man tilted his chin up, studying it. “It will not scar. A pity, you know scars do make enemies tremble.”

“And ladies swoon,” said another guard added as he walked by, heading into the fields. Faramir flinched slightly and knew his mistake. There were few guards of Gondor more perceptive than Beregond and the flinch was noted. He dropped Faramir’s chin.

“I believe you will live,” He said then, giving a warm smile, “Do you come to try your mettle at swordplay?”

“At archery today, I think,” Faramir said, glancing at his brother who nodded in agreement. The three walked together to where the guards of Gondor were practicing. The twang of the bow strings and the thwack of arrows hitting their targets felt comforting. Boromir stepped down onto the field but Beregond motioned for Faramir before he followed.

“You need not fret the paths laid before you,” Beregond said.

Faramir frowned, “I do not quite see your meaning.”

Beregond nodded, “The men jest with you in fondness. You and Boromir both are well liked by the guards. They tease you in order to connect with you, to make you feel at ease with them. Though I see it has the opposite effect.”

Faramir looked over. He saw Boromir had stopped to wait for them, watching, but he was not coming back to interrupt.

“I know this,” Faramir replied, “I am not offended.”

“I did not suggest you were,” Beregond replied, “The men tell old jokes, tease from old ideas. It is how they have been teased and now they carry the words on, but their words are just that. Old ideas passed on, they are not prescriptions to follow.”

Faramir tensed. “You see me as different?”

Beregond looked at him, frowning, “Yes…and yet in your tone you hear that as an insult.” The guard shook his head. “There are more people than you think who do not fit easily into the paths set by Gondor.” Beregond gestured toward the cut on Faramir’s cheek. “There are those who will teach you, through words or violence, through looks or dismissal, that anything that is different must be wrong, but the world is full of difference.”

Faramir felt a sting of tears in his eyes and fought them back with every bit of strength in his body, every muscle tense as he looked up at Beregond. What could this man know? What could he see in him?

Yet, had not Faramir’s father said as much? That the difference was apparent on him. That people could see the lack. He felt the coil of shame as it ripped at his insides like a dragon’s claw. He looked away. He heard Beregond take a step back.

“I have said too much perhaps, but I pray….remember my words, and the loyalty that lies under them. There are those who will not see your differences as flaws.” With those parting words, Beregond was gone, armor clinking as he headed back to the sword drills. Faramir stood still for a long time before Boromir came back and slung an arm around his shoulder.

“Let’s show these archers how it is done, little brother.”

_-_-_

“You are fidgeting,” Éowyn said.

“I am not fidgeting,” Éomer said, trying to focus on preventing his hand from tapping against his knee.

“Fine, but now you are pacing,” Éowyn said, tilting her head.

Éomer forced himself to come to a standstill.

“Uncle will say yes,” Éowyn said, looking up at him.

“You do not know that.”

“I know,” Éowyn said.

“Oh, and have you now the ability to see into the hearts of men?” Éomer asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, such a feat is not that hard, men on the whole are not nearly as mysterious as they seem to believe themselves,” Éowyn replied. Théoden entered the room then, pausing to look between them. His eyes fixed then on Éomer.

“Hello,” he said, and his eyes continued to study them, “What do I owe the pleasure of you coming to my study before breakfast? I take it you are not here to inquire of my health?”

“I want to become a Rohirrim,” Éomer blurted. He heard his sister sigh beside them. Hours of fretting, carefully working through how he would present it to their uncle, and the hours he kept her awake the night before talking through every angle of this conversation gone in a second.

Théoden stopped, a hand on his hip. “I always assumed you would.”

It was said with such ease that it halted Éomer’s thoughts entirely.

“Did you believe I would refuse you?” Théoden asked, frowning, “The Rohirrim will be honored to serve alongside my nephew.” Théoden shook his head, “They already admire your skill with sword and horse.” He walked over and laid his hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “Riding with the Rohirrim has always been you place.” Théoden frowned, motioning for Éomer to follow him to the window. They walked over, staring out onto the horses exercising below. “Rohan is far from perfect, but one thing my father committed to, and his father before him, and now—I hope—I myself uphold, is that people may be as they are in Rohan without fear of judgment.” He frowned, “Have you found it has not been so for you, Éomer?”

“No, Uncle, Rohan is my home in every way,” Éomer said.

“Then what is it that makes you question your place among the Rohirrim?”

“Will our allies so easily accept me?”

Théoden squeezed his shoulder, letting out a breath. “Someone has made you aware that the ways of Gondor are different than ours.” The King rubbed a hand over his face. “I had hoped to shelter you from that eventuality for a time.”

Éomer frowned, “Did you not believe I could handle it?”

“I did not believe you should have to,” Théoden replied. He let out a sigh, “Our neighboring kingdom has backward rules. They create a kingdom that runs on shame and chases the expectations of others. It is a true sorrow to grow up in that, and I had hoped you would not have to.”

“They will not accept me,” Éomer said.

“I fear you are right,” Théoden replied, “But I do not remember Rohan being a subject of Gondor. We have never changed our ways to please the liking of the White City before, and we will not do so now.” He turned, “You should never have to prove yourself to anyone, Éomer, you should not have to but I believe you infinitely capable of doing so if you are forced.” He grabbed both his nephew’s shoulders then. “You will become a Rohirrim.” He met Éomer’s eyes, “Promise me this, Éomer. You will not listen to the whispers of the men of Gondor and let it bend your mind against yourself. You will ride with the Rohirrim, and know you are always accepted here.”

_-_-_

The air was cold but the spirits were high in Gondor. It was the first night of the festival. Faramir—now a young man—walked through the city, smiling softly. He watched the people of the White City spilling out onto the streets, laughter flowing as easily as the mead. He felt their happiness like it flowed out to him, but he felt removed from it at once. He did not remember a time when he felt free like that, when he felt like he could release all within him and hold nothing back, but he liked to watch the people of Gondor happy. He did not begrudge a single carefree laugh.

“My lord,” a guard bumped into his shoulder, far more familiar than he would be when sober. “Come drink with us!” The man motioned with his drink—sloshing some of the gold liquid on the ground between them—to a group of other men. They did not serve under Faramir, but he knew them all by name.

He nodded, smiling tightly, “I think I will continue to walk the grounds a while.”

“Come on, you never join in!” The man said, “What are you afraid of, stewart’s son?”

Faramir felt a little of the happiness seeping out of him, but he kept the smile in place. “You have had much to drink, Oeric.” The man slapped Faramir’s shoulder and he cringed on instinct.

“Come on, there is drink and women aplenty to be had,” Oeric said, “Or is that what you are afraid of.”

Faramir felt his shoulders tense. Then a hand landed on Oeric’s shoulder.

“I think you forget who you speak to,” Beregond said, his voice a dark growl. “You will show respect for the stewart’s son and the future captain of the guard, Lord Faramir.”

Oeric backed away, holding up his hands. “I meant my words only in jest.”

“In jest or not, they remain beneath you,” Beregond said, “It is the first night of the festival, which means I am feeling generous. Go back to your companions before my mind shifts.” The man stumbled over himself running back.

Faramir took a breath and started walking, not at all surprised when Beregond joined him. “You are truly loyal, Beregond, but I fear your protection only serves to further their beliefs.”

“I did not mean to make it appear you cannot protect yourself,” Beregond said, “You prove yourself more than capable on the battlefield and the practice field. It is merely that you should not have to protect yourself from the barbs of men who have sworn themselves to you.”

“They have not sworn themselves to me,” Faramir replied, “They have sworn themselves to Gondor, as have I.”

“And all the more you should not be subjected to their words,” Beregond said. He let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. “If I could…I wish that I could…” He let out a frustrated sound. “Were that I could say what I thought.”

Faramir furrowed his brow, stopping to look at the other man. The revelry continued around them, heedless of them, like a river running around a rock. “I had not known you were holding back.”

“There is much I do not say,” Beregond said. Faramir read the frustration in his face.

“And if I gave you leave to speak as you think?”

Beregond stared into his eyes, and Faramir had the sense he was searching for something. “Would you wish it?”

“If it would ease your pain, I would hear your thoughts.”

Beregond held his gaze for a long moment, then shook his head. “It cannot be so. The sight of Gondor is long, and its memory longer. I would not speak words in a moment and regret them for a lifetime.” He let out a low breath, “Take care, my lord.” The man slipped away from his side, pushing through the crowd instead of walking with it. Faramir stood for a long moment, before he slowly turned from the man.

Faramir frowned, he caught sight of a grey cloak sweeping around a corner. Faramir followed it, making his way around the men shouting their toasts and drinks sloshing. He turned the corner and came up short as he nearly ran into the grey-clad figure who stood, leaning casually on the wall as if he had long stood there—Mithrandir with his pipe.

“Mithrandir, I did not know you came for the festival.”

“I only arrived moments ago.” The grey wizard smiled, “I had forgotten the festival entirely, my boy.” He felt those keen eyes studying him. “You do not appear to have partaken in the festivities yourself.”

Faramir looked down, “I do not much care to join in with revelry. I would rather watch.”

Mithrandir nodded thoughtfully, “I seem to remember a tower that would allow you to watch the revelry from afar and gaze upon the stars.”

“Such a place exists, yes,” Faramir replied.

“Well, what do you say, my boy?” Mithrandir tilted his head, “Will you show an old wizard to such a place.”

Faramir smiled softly, “I would be happy to.”

They walked mostly without speaking as Faramir led the wizard into the citadel. The celebrants' loud laughter and drunken singing made any conversation challenging, but Faramir found himself content to walk with the man in silence. They ascended the stairs to one of the eastern towers of the stronghold. It gave a sight of the city, unfolding like a flower below, and removed them from everything enough to give an unobscured sight of the stars. Mithrandir turned his eyes to these, letting out a contented breath. “It is a beautiful sight.”

Faramir leaned his arms on the wall between him and the city. It was strange, but being further away did not make him feel any more separate than he did in the middle of their celebrations. He leaned his chin on his folded hands as he stared out.

“It has been a few years since I last saw you, Faramir,” Mithrandir said. The young guard of Gondor looked up to see Mithrandir’s eyes were fixed on him now.

“It has been,” Faramir said, “When last you were here, you said you were looking to see if the light was still within me.”

“That I did,” he replied.

“Do you see it still, now?” Faramir asked. Mithrandir was silent for a long moment and time felt as if it slowed down around them.

“It is still there,” Mithrandir replied, “But it is shrouded and will not remain long untended.”

Faramir nodded and turned his gaze back out to the city.

“You are not surprised by what I see,” said the wizard.

“I am not surprised,” Faramir replied, “You are not the only one to see a hole within me.”

“A hole?”

“A broken space,” Faramir said, amending his words. “No one speaks of it as you do, but it is seen. My father has seen the brokenness in me since I was young. I know it is seen, I hear it in the talk of the guards. Even my brother, who cannot find it in him to speak any word of criticism for me, looks at me with worry.”

“And you think these must be signs of brokenness?” Mithrandir asked.

“What else could they be?”

“And do you have a name for it, Faramir?” the wizard’s voice was quiet, a soft rumble. He spoke in such a way that Faramir knew, Mithrandir had already seen much. He did not need the words spoken aloud to have the answer. Faramir closed his eyes tight against the knowledge that this person he respected above most anyone else would see in him the same flaws apparent to so many others. He felt the pain of it as it twisted his insides.

“I do not love as men of Gondor should.”

The words were bare, quiet, and raw. Finally, the words he had hardly let his mind thinks slipped out into the air, and he felt the agony of them anew. Faramir covered his face. Mithrandir said nothing, and so Faramir pressed on.

“I have never felt for a woman as the men of Gondor do. I do not think I have such feelings within me. Nothing I feel matches what I have heard described. I have read books and books searching for any description and I can find none. I have endeavored to hide it, but they see the difference. My father has known I was broken before I had words to describe it.” He stopped the words suddenly, cutting them off with force. He felt shame and pain swirling into an ugly bile in his core.

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, warm and steady. “And you have told yourself if you could not find your feelings explained in the archives of Gondor, they must not exist, have you?” Faramir looked up. He did not see the disgust or anger he was expecting. Mithrandir looked at him exactly the same as he had a moment before. The wizard stood there, eyebrow raised in expectation. When Faramir did not answer, he sighed. “Has it occurred to you that such books would not be welcomed in the halls of the White City?”

Faramir’s eyes widened, “Such words exist?”

“They do,” Mithrandir replied, “You are not the first person to not feel the stirring of desire. I suspect there is nothing you feel that has not been felt somewhere before, and perhaps even put to page, but the stewarts of Gondor have final say in what words are preserved. They may decide such stories are not how they wish Gondor to be seen. Then a book is not kept, not protected, and the story disappears. One time, two times, and then many times. Then a young man comes along searching for answers and feels alone.” Mithrandir’s hand tightened on his shoulder, “Not all stories are easily found.”

Faramir felt tears in his eyes begin to spill down his face. “Can it truly be that there are other’s who feel as I do?”

“There are, and always have been,” Mithrandir replied, taking a long drag from his pipe. “And many other people besides. Men, women, and those who are neither—as they say in Rohan—have felt many a feeling and wrote many a story that has been lost but they do not cease to exist because their stories are not told. In Rohan, they sing songs about men who love other men and women who love women the same. They sing about people whose spirit songs are neither woman or man. And yes, Faramir, there are poems of the Rohirrim for those who feel desire for no other.”

“In Rohan, they have given in to their carnal desires,” Faramir said. Mithrandir raised his eyebrow.

“So says Denethor, son of Ecthelion. But what does Faramir say? Do you truly believe this?”

Faramir’s eyelids fluttered, catching tears. “I would like to not believe it.”

“I cannot tell you what to believe,” Mithrandir said, his voice soft. The wizard’s eyes traced Faramir’s, “But I can tell you I see a shroud of darkness over your heart, but I do not see brokenness.” Mithrandir released his shoulder. “Not every story has been lost to Gondor. There are some that remain, for those who would look for them.”

Faramir heard the wizard’s footsteps as the man departed. He stood a long time in silence, thoughts running with the words that seemed to hang in the air around him. Slowly, he straightened up and descended the stairs. The young guard made his way into the bowels of the citadel where lay the archives. He collected a lantern, holding it up. Faramir thought of his father. His father, the loremaster of Gondor would knew if such words as Mirthdir described existed. The young man watched the light catch on the twisting shelves covered in books and for the first time, Faramir knew what he was looking at.

The stories that his father allowed him to find.

Faramir looked back into the depths of the archives, the spaces that were forgotten, where Denethor would say the unimportant works were held. Faramir focused his gaze on these spaces and his work began.

_-_-_

Éomer was old enough now to lead his Rohirrim. He had grown into the armor of a warrior, grown muscles to hold up the shield and sword. He held his head high as they rode, horses hooves pounding across the grassy hills. He was on his way to Gondor for the first time.

Gondor was the closest ally, and Éomer had often met delegations from Gondor when they arrived in Rohan, but his uncle had put off this milestone. He had resisted sending Éomer to Gondor itself until it had begun to chafe against Éomer.

“I do not need to be protected!” Éomer said, “I am not so precious as to need such a thing.”

He watched his uncle and King look exhausted, saw the way exhaustion won the ground. “Perhaps you are ready,” Theoden said then, the first break in their regular conversation.

So, Éomer rode to toward the White City.


	2. Of Trust and Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! I am so excited to show you all the moodboards made for the story (and as a birthday present) by my amazing friend @shinnewn on twitter! Check out the first chap for the Ace Faramir moodboard and this chapter for the trans Éomer one
> 
> And I made a [Faramir/Éomer Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6o7ZShlxfLHDtJMC2KWJS1?si=lwN-uKdATY24gJrW0-86lg)

Éomer rode to Gondor, the Rohirrim at his side. One day he would lead them. He would like to see anyone try and stop him. At his side rode his sister. She was young for such travel, but few in the land were hardier than Éowyn. She would be a good Rohirrim if their uncle allowed such things. For someone who believed in a welcoming Rohan, he had bafflingly hard stands on some parts of tradition.

Éomer had believed he could wear T _héoden_ down, convince him, but things were shifting in Rohan. There was a shadow a growing over their land. Théoden was different, more conflicted, quicker to temper than Éomer had ever seen him. He was becoming more steeped in the old ways, the old prejudices. Éomer did not know what to make of the change, but he knew who to blame for it. _Grima, the new advisor, had a powerful sway over_ T _héoden. With a twisted word, he had the power to sway the king._

Perhaps, Éomer thought, it would be good to get out of Rohan for a while. Even if where he was headed would hardly be a simple respite. Gondor, Minas Tirith specifically. Éomer had never seen the White City though he had heard it oft-spoken of. Songs sprung naturally from the sight of it even rendered the poets of Rohan unable to contain their praise. He was ready for his first sight of it.

Éomer told himself he was ready to face the court of Gondor too. He had encountered Boromir many times, even fought by his side a time or two as well. He liked Boromir—what’s more—he trusted him. Éomer knew stories of his journey to being a Rohirrim were known in Gondor. He knew too they were not spoken of kindly, but Boromir had never treated him as anything other than a brother at arms. Éomer looked forward to encountering Boromir again.

There was also the younger stewart’s son. Éomer had never met the man, but Boromir spoke of him with a kind of fondness Éomer recognized. He felt the same for his own sister. He did not trust the young man of Gondor on that alone, but Boromir’s devotion went a long way to encouraging Éomer.

No, it was not the stewart’s sons that he suspected would cause him any trouble. Éomer knew it was the stewart himself who would give him trouble if there was trouble to be found.

The Rohirrim crested the hill and Éomer pulled his horse to a stop. Firefoot followed his slightest movement, completely attuned to the rider. The Rohirrim pulled up in formation around him. It was from this hilltop that they got their first sight of the City.

Minis Tirith unfolded before them, the white walls layered until the stones seemed a water fall of layered city, frozen in perfect arrangement. It was lovely and unlike anything Éomer had ever seen.

“I see why poets write of it.”

“It is just a city,” Éowyn replied, and with that, she was riding toward it as if she would lead the Rohirrim there. Éomer laughed at the brazen girl and started after her.

_-_-_

Éowyn blew out a breath in frustration. She had been presented to the court along with her brother, but then promptly dismissed. The conversations Théoden needed them to convey were not for children. The old stewart had made that clear. She hated him in an instant.

Of course she was supposed to retire to the rooms they would be using during their stay. Little girls were always being told to retire to rooms when the men were allowed to go to the stables or out to the practice fields. So of course, she immediately slipped away from the servants and went out herself. If it was good enough for the Rohirrim, it was good enough for her.

There was nothing interesting to do in doors.

Éowyn did not understand when the distance of years between her and Éomer had seemed to grow. She was always his closest friend and confidant. Now, he acted as if he was so much older than her. She felt the annoyance of it in her bones.

The young girl walked along the cobbled stones, sloping away from the citadel. She hated the dress she had to wear to be presented at court. It would make it impossible to spar even if she found her way to the training fields. Éowyn considered what brief moments she had spent at court before she was dismissed. The stewart was awful. She saw it in his scowl, the way he tilted his head—he thought they were beneath him. He had referred to Éomer once as “Théoden ’s…nephew.” That was how he said it, pausing a moment on the word nephew. It was intentional, she saw it in his eyes. She hated him completely.

Boromir seemed good enough. Éomer spoke well of him and he had not treated them like so much Rohirrim refuse, so she supposed the hurtle he had to cross to seem good in that moment was low. They had not met the other stewart’s son. She saw a half second of disappointment when Éomer realized it. Strange. Éowyn did not know any reason why Éomer should be concerned with meeting another haughty nobility of Gondor.

She paused, considering the labyrinthian paths in front of her. The White City seemed bafflingly convoluted in design.

A man was walking by her. She noted him with a warriors instinct—as she noticed anyone who drew so close—but he his face was buried in a book as he walked. She turned her attention from him, only to draw it back at once when she realized he stopped. He looked up from his book at her. “Hello,” he said. “Are you coming from the citadel?”

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, “But I do not know you and will keep my destination and origin spot to myself for the time.”

The man smiled slightly, “A wise choice,” he said, “As you do not know me. I conclude you are not from here.”  
“Because I do not know you?” Éowyn asked, putting a hand on her hip.

His smile seemed to be growing more amused, but he was stifling it. He did not answer her question, an infuriating trait she had found unfortunately common in grown men.

“Forgive any insult, my lady. I merely meant to inquire if you were lost.”

“If I am or if I am not, why would I tell you?” She asked. Éowyn studied him. He was younger than he had first seemed. The smile did that, it seemed to reveal his youth. He was some years older than Éomer, she suspected, but not so may as Boromir. His dark hair was lovely and fairly clean. Along with that, his uniform—one of a guard of Gondor she noted, with the white tree crest on his chest—was of high quality. He was wealthy and perhaps even high ranking in the guard. He wore a sword at his side, but did not wear it as some men did—as if the sword gave them permission to swagger. There as nothing of the rough and overconfident in this man. He had a heaviness to his shoulders and something sad in his grey eyes. Were he not wearing the uniform, she would assume he had a scholar’s job.

He nodded, “My apologies. I am a guard of Gondor, just returned to the city as it were. I understand a contingent has arrived from Rohan, and I was wondering if you were among them. I can show you the way to return. However, we still have the problem of whether you should trust me or not.” He considered it, she realized. He was not playing at considering her thoughts, but truly thinking of them. It was an uncommon trait in those who were older than her, especially men.

“Perhaps if you lead, I could follow at a distance. Then if it seem you are leading me astray I could still run away.”

The man nodded, “Yes, I suppose it could work, but if you are avoiding those who mean you harm, going with them to a second location is dangerous even if you follow them at a distance.”

“I thought you were convincing me to trust you,” she said.

The man smiled softly, “Yes, but I would not be the reason you stopped trusting your excellent instincts. You were correct in your assessment that I have not yet given you a reasn to trust me.”

Éowyn liked him, she decided in that moment, even if she had not yet decided to trust him.

“There is another problem,” he said.

“Is there?”

“Well yes,” he replied, “As a guard, I cannot leave you here alone.”

“So, we are to stand here staring at each other until someone else comes along or we die?” Éowyn asked.

“That doesn’t seem ideal no,” he replied.

“Where were you headed?” she asked him then, “You have a great many books.”

The man smiled, and there was a genuine fondness in that look. “To the archives. I have books brought from afar by traders on their way through the city. You see, I have a number of merchants who are kind enough to keep an eye out for such things and collect them for me. I go by as often as I can to pay the merchants and collect what they have found.”

“A complicated process just to obtain some books.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Oh not so, they are worth it,” he replied, “I hope to find ones we do not already posses in the archives.”  
“I thought the archives are legendary in their multitudes,” she said. Éowyn was not impressed by this accomplishment, but it as one she had heard often repeated as if she should be.

There was a strange look in the man’s face, “Indeed, but they are hardly exhaustive. There are a great many stories in the world. Some harder to locate than others. I hope to find those that would go forgotten.”

“Correct me if I am wrong,” Éowyn said, “But I did not believe archivist was under the job description of guard? Or are the books under threat of siege?”

She was expecting a lighter reaction than she received, but the man considered the book in his hand. “Under siege? No, but neither are they assured protection. Many things threaten knowledge beyond weapon. But you are not wrong, it is not my position to be archivist. It is more an unofficial occupation.”

Éowyn raised an eyebrow.

“You think me a strange man?”

“A strange warrior at least,” she replied.

At that moment, a group of guards came by. Each one bowed their heads in deference to the man she spoke to as they passed. So, she was right about his rank. Then the last one said, “Excuse us, Lord Faramir.” They exchanged a few words before the man went on, but Éowyn stopped listening. She stared at the man in front of her.

So, this was the elusive stewart’s younger son.

The parade of guard’s left, and the man—Faramir—turned back to her. Éowyn put a hand on her hip. “You’re Faramir son of Denethor?”

Faramir gave a bow, “I am he.”  
“Why did you not say?” Éowyn replied.

“Would you have trusted me had I said that I was Faramir?” He asked.

“Yes!”

“You should not trust smeone just because I hold a title,” Faramir replied, “There are many men who hold power that would use it ill.”

“I know that,” Éowyn replied, “I am no child, but I would have trusted you because your brother speaks so highly of you and my brother trusts him. My brother does not trust easy.”

“Then you must be Lady Éowyn, and your brother is Lord Éomer?”

“It is just so,” she replied. “And since we both know our stations, I suppose you can walk me back to the citadel.” She looked, “Though, should we go by way of the archives so you do not have to lug those with you?”

“I do not mind,” Faramir replied, smiling down at the books with a type of affection, as if they were fouls in his care.

“Do not be foolish,” Éowyn said, “We can go to the archive first. I am not wanted for any specific purpose at the citadel until dinner.” She started walking, hoping to pick the right direction.

“If you do intend to see the archives, I would be happy to escort you, but they are in this direction.”

She turned to see him gently nodding. Faramir had a way of talking that assumed nothing. Even in telling her she was wrong, he said it as if he expected her to argue. This was a man who the guards of the greatest kingdom next to Rohan deferred to, but he seemed unaware of his status in a way she had never seen. Éowyn frowned, considering him as she walked.

“Why were you not in the city when we arrived?”

“I rode out with the guards. We had intended to return before your arrival, but we were waylaid. The paths around Gondor grow more dangerous by the day.” Éowyn frowned and saw Faramir regard her. “Did I misspeak?”

“No, it is more that you spoke honestly. Most men do not speak so candidly with me.”

“I am certain they mean to protect you,” Faramir replied.

“And you do not?”

“I do not think innocence protects nearly as well as knowledge,” Faramir replied.

“Is that why you love the archives?”

Faramir paused, and she knew that once again he was truly considering her words. It was a validating realization, to be regarded as someone whose words held weight. “Yes, I suppose it is in part.” He pushed open a large door, “We are here.”

Éowyn followed him down a spiral staircase. She peered over his shoulder as they rounded the final turn and she entered the legendary archives of Minas Tilith for the first time.

Torches painted shadows across walls, making every corner and edge stand out. Shelves and shelves unfolded in all directions around them, going up to the steepled ceilings far above them. It smelled of dust and old pages. Éowyn frowned. It seemed bleak in comparison to the gleaming white city outside. She turned to comment on it, but hesitated. Something in the guarded position of Faramir’s shoulders released in this hall. He seemed at ease here, like he felt safe. Éowyn held back her critical words.

“You truly do love the archives.”

Faramir glanced at her out of the corner of his eye before focusing back, running a hand lovingly across a shelf. “Am I proving myself even stranger for a warrior than you assumed?”

“I do not know the warriors of Gondor as I do the one’s of Rohan.”

Faramir smiled, but it lacked any humor. “I assure you, my tendencies are strange for a warrior, regardless of the kingdom.” Éowyn frowned, trying to parse the deeper meaning in his words. She could sense volumes of history lay behind them, but she could not detect the shape of it.

Faramir turned back to her then, and she caught the traces of wonder in his eyes. He saw something in this musty hall that would never be clear to her. “My collection is just here.” He began walking down the passages made by dusty shelves until he reached an alcove, with books in varying stages of preservation laying out. He gently laid his new acquisitions there among them, placing a hand on the cover of the top one as if to comfort it.

Éowyn walked over and took a seat. “So, these are the archives of the White City. They are well known in all lands.”  
Faramir took a seat as well, eyes focused on the new books. “They store the knowledge of ages that would be lost were they not protected here.”

Éowyn nodded. It was a moment before he looked up.

“The archives bore you?” he asked, standing, “We should return you to the citadel.”

“I promise you, being stowed away in my quarters is no less boring.” Éowyn replied, then she raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you assume I am bored because I am young or because I am from Rohan?” Without waiting for him to respond, she raise a challenging eyebrow. “The people of Rohan may not be as well read as those of Gondor, but we can read you know. It is idol tongues that say we cannot.”

“I know that the people of Rohan can read,” Faramir said, raising his hand in defense. “I merely assumed you were bored because I have found few people who enjoyed the archives as I do.”

Éowyn let down some of her guard. “We are often dismissed as people who know little beyond horses and crops, but it is not true. We may not have archives as Gondor does, but we do read books. It is merely that we prefer to pass our stories through song and poem.”

Faramir laid his arms against the table in front of him and turned his full attention to her. The same feeling stirred through her again, the feeling of being seen. Faramir saw her, in the same way her brother did. He saw her as a person, not a lady of the court or a child.

He steepled his fingers in thought, “Do you have a poem you would tell me?” he asked, “I would love a poem of Rohan to be recorded in the archives of Gondor.”

Éowyn considered it, “I do not know if it is my place to give it. At least not without thought.”

Faramir nodded, “Are the poems of Rohan so well guarded?”  
“No, but they are free.” Éowyn waved around, “Not captured in dusty halls.”

He smiled at her in return, “I would not cage them, then. If they prefer the free air.”

Éowyn looked at him, “Have you never been to Rohan?”

“I have not,” Faramir replied, and again she sensed that there was more to his words than he said. Yet she knew with a quiet certainty that he was not being deceptive, merely that Farmir was someone with layers he was reticent to share.

“One day, you should come to Rohan and hear the poems spoken aloud by our Rohirrim.”

“I would love that,” he said, and in his eyes she knew it was more than a passing comment.

“One of the servants told me my little sister was enjoying the quiet comfort of the archives,” Éomer’s voice came from the shadows cast by rows of books. He stepped out, a hand on either hip. “And I said to them, it cannot be my sister, Éowyn. I must have some other sister unknown to me, as Éowyn would never be in doors on a day where there is sunshine to be gathered and she has no time for books.”  
“That is not true!” Éowyn replied, “I was just saying to lord Faramir that the people of Rohan can read, and you are now going to make him believe I am lying.”

She watched her brother’s eyes flit up to the man, studying him. “So, you are the lord Faramir. What strange devilry did you use to convince my sister to take an interest in the archives?”

Faramir stood, bowing respectfully. “I am Faramir, second son of Denethor. It is with greatest regret that I was not present to greet you upon your arrival to the city.”

“And yet you do me the further disservice of not answering my question,” Éomer replied. Éowyn knew he spoke in jest, but she saw Faramir trying to gauge him.

“Do not allow my brother to trouble you, lord Faramir,” Éowyn said, “For he values humor above decorum and does not always remember that there are those unaccustomed to his familiarity.”

“I am untroubled,” Faramir replied quickly, “I merely do not know what I failed to answer.”

Éomer glared at Éowyn, then looked up at him, “I asked to know what devilry you used to interested my sister in the archives.”

“Oh, no devilry, I assure you. Nothing more than her kindness of heart, that saw me struggling with a load of books destined for the archives and insisted I bring them here before leading her back to the citadel.”

Éomer raised an eyebrow, glancing at Éowyn. He silently questioned her, but she noted he was kind enough not to doubt the account out loud.

“Now that you are here, the lady Éowyn need not linger in the dark of the archives longer.” Faramir smiled at her, “I thank you for your company, my lady.”

“And I insist you do as you have promised,” she replied.

Faramir frowned, “What have I promised?”

“That you will come to Rohan and hear the lore spoken allowed in its fields.”  
Faramir smiled, “I would like nothing more.”

“Then do!”

Faramir faltered, “When I may.”

Éowyn frowned, “What does that mean?”

“It means that the lord Faramir is not at his own leave,” Éomer cut in, “That he must go where he is bid.” Éowyn furrowed her brow, about to push further, but her brother cut her off, “As a guard of Gondor. He does as his lord father bids him.” Éowyn’s confusion grew, but she caught the flicker of a look in Éomer’s eyes and let the words drop.

Éomer nodded to Faramir, “We will take no more of your time, though I hope we may see you at the evening meal?”

“Indeed,” Faramir replied, bowing first to Éomer and then Éowyn.

“Until then,” Éowyn said, and she smiled at her new friend, for friend she had decided Faramir would be. Quiet he was and reserved beyond what she had ever witnessed. It was not the custom in Rohan to hold back so much.

She fell into step beside her brother, casting looks up at him once they left the darkness of the archives and stepped into the golden sunlight. “Something troubles you about the lord Faramir?”

“Hm?” Éomer asked, “I do not know the lord Faramir.”

Éowyn’s frown deepened. While it was not the nature of the men of Rohan to show reserve, it was even less so with her brother. “That has not before stopped you from forming judgment.”

Éomer looked over at her then, “Rude girl,” he said, fondly, “You seemed to quite like him.”

“Indeed. He treated me as a human rather than a child,” she replied.

“A rare thing indeed,” Éomer agreed. He was not so much older than her to have forgotten what it was to be dismissed. Éomer led her back to the chambers, then put his hand on the doorframe. “You cannot wander the city unescorted, Éowyn.” He held up his hand, “I know, it is foolish, but this is not our city. You do not have the safety of being surrounded by the people who love you, and you would run afoul of their customs. Things are not as easy in Minas Tilith as they are at home.”

Éowyn’s shoulders sank, “Brother…” 

“I know it is not fair,” he replied, “But I promise you, I am not having more fun in meetings with the stewart.” His tone held the tension of annoyance. Then he focused back on her.

“Faramir showed you a great deal of kindness, didn’t he?

“He did,” Éowyn replied, “His brother did not misspeak about him, I think.”

“I have not known Boromir to misspeak.”  
“No, but brothers can be so biased,” Éowyn replied, smiling, and winning smile out of Éomer in return.

“Yes, I suppose we are. I will see you at dinner, and then tomorrow perhaps we can find time to explore the city.”  
“Perhaps you can persuade the stewart son to join us,” Éowyn replied.

She watched her brother considered this and found in his expression it was a pleasing idea indeed. “Perhaps we can. I will see you at dinner.”

_-_-_

Éomer hated the stewart of Gondor. He found himself more than once wondering how such a man could sire Boromir. In their meetings as they discussed the needs of their two kingdoms, he watched as Boromir maneuvered his father without ever once showing disrespect. Yet Boromir’s skill did nothing to conceal the dismissive quality to Denethor’s words not merely for Rohan—which he clearly viewed as inferior—but for Éomer specifically.

Denethor did not see Éomer as an equal, and there was no question as to why.

Éomer felt a shield rise around his heart. He was not the most levelheaded of the Rohirrim, but he would do nothing to jeopardize Rohan. This alliance was essential, so he would handle the stewart’s words and looks, even if each felt like a knife searching for purchase in the cracks between his armor. They were still discussing trade deals as they moved to the dinning hall. Éomer felt his anger growing, a fiery thing he fought to keep under his command like a horse not yet tamed. Then his eyes caught on Faramir entering the room.

Éomer’s heart froze a half second between beats. Again as it had done in the archives when he had approached and was still hidden from his sister and the guard of Gondor.

The raven-haired man hesitated at the doorway, studying them. Éomer saw in the lines of his body he was a strong man, accustomed to fighting, but somehow battle had not made him hardened. No, there was a softness to him that Éomer could not name anymore than he could name the feeling the sight of Faramir stirred in him.

There was no reason this man of Gondor should captivate him body and soul, but Éomer could no more deny it than deny the coming of setting sun.

“Faramir,” Éomer said, smiling. He watched the youngest stewart’s son look startled, then glance at his father for a second before walking over to them.

“Do you know my brother?” Boromir asked in surprise.

“We met briefly earlier today,” Éomer replied.

“You did not present yourself upon your return,” Denethor’s words held a weight that surprised Éomer. Faramir barely reacted—barely—but Éomer still caught the hint of a repressed flinch in his movement. “Found your way to the archives instead, no doubt.”

“There were materials that required…”  
“I do not remember making you archivist,” Denethor replied. Faramir’s words died on his tongue.

“My apologies, father,” he said, “I should have sought you at once.”

“As a matter of proper decorum, you should have,” Denethor replied, his tone colder than the iciest wind on the moors. “However, in practice it matters not. You would have provided no use in our discussions.”

Éomer did not like Denethor before, but in that moment, he knew he hated this man with everything within himself.

“Faramir,” Éomer cut in, “My sister has decided you should be the one to guide us to see the city on the morrow.”

Faramir looked up, surprised and confused at once. “Has she?”

“Why yes, my sister seems to think you the most honorable of men.”

“Your sister is insightful,” Boromir said then, slapping his brother’s arm with fondness and Éomer had the sense that were he able, Boromir would blot out every cruel word of their father’s and write over it with his own words until he could change the shadow in those grey eyes. “Speaking of, where is your good sister?”

“I am certain she will be along soon,” Éomer replied, “Can I secure your agreement before she arrives? You will greatly increase her happiness with me.”

Éomer watched Faramir hold back once more, his eyes flickering to the stewart.

“Go where you are wanted, Faramir. I have no need of you tomorrow,” Denethor said, disengaging from the conversation to take his seat at the head of the table. Éomer had never met a man so capable of stealing joy from another. Faramir seemed reduced, if it was possible. He seemed to have drawn back further within himself.

“We should sit as well,” Boromir said, then as they approached the table, he grabbed Faramir’s elbow. They exchanged a few quiet words and Éomer was able to make out only. “Father…” and a quick, “Do not take his words as truth, Faramir…” before Faramir drew away from his brother with a sad smile.

Éomer hesitated as he noticed Boromir took the right hand of his father across from Éomer. He glanced over as Faramir came toward him. “We sit together I see,” Éomer said. Faramir studied him quietly.

“It would seem so.”

Éomer took the seat, trying to read something in Faramir’s silence. It was not subtle, the dig of placing Éomer at his left hand. Guest or no, the position should have been Faramir’s, but the guard of Gondor did not seem surprised by this breech of decorum. After the slights Denethor had cast his own way, Éomer was surprised to be offered anything like a privileged space at the table, but any questions this raise where removed the moment Denethor turned his full attention to his older son. Cut off from his host’s attention was an insult that Éomer felt deeply, but a sliver of gratitude overcame his offense. He could give full attention to his other dinner companion.

“Will you agree then?” Éomer asked.

“If it is truly as the lady Éowyn desires,” Faramir replied.

“It is. You made quite the impression on her, which is no easy feat. How did you manage it?”

Faramir frowned, “I do not know, truly.”

At that, the lady Éowyn entered wearing a fine dress Éomer knew she must have hated and must have been at the behest of their uncle. As she approached, the men of the table stood with the exception of Denethor. Éomer felt his jaw clench. He would feel no less assaulted had the man chosen to slap him across the face.

Éowyn took a seat beside Boromir, smiling at him. He returned it warmly before they retook their seats.

“Faramir has agreed to give us a tour of the White City tomorrow, sister,” Éomer said. Éowyn looked across the table, her eyes lighting up.

“Have you? My brother did not put undue influence on you, did he, Faramir?”

“Not at all, my lady,” Faramir replied, his smile soft.

“Well, you can remove the archives from your list of destinations, for we have both seen it, and Éomer has less interest in written history than I.”

“Is that so?” Faramir asked, looking to his table companion.

Éomer gave a playful glare at his sister before looking at him, “Have I dropped in your favor.”

“Not at all.”

“Why do I suspect you would say that regardless of your meaning,” Éomer replied.

Faramir frowned, “You believe me dishonest?”

“I believe you incurably kind,” Éomer replied.

“You act as if you know me.”

Éomer shook his head, “I do not presume to truly know you, Faramir. I suspect few people have that honor.”

“Have I been cold to you?”

“No,” Éomer frowned. He felt a slow understanding. He could not speak with Faramir as he did the Rohirrim. Faramir read into each word and seemed to seek out any hidden rebuke. With a father like his, Éomer could imagine why. “I mean merely, you seem similar to your archives.” He watched Faramir’s eyebrows raise in question. “Aye, you contain many paths that do not lead directly to any destination, but wind slowly to more than a few quiet truths.” The shadows were the same too, but Éomer kept this comparison to himself.

Faramir seemed startled, and Éomer could see in his eyes he was trying to work out the words as if he doubted they could mean only what they seemed on the surface. Éomer wondered how the young guard would answer. He found himself intrigued beyond his own understanding by the workings of this man’s mind. But before he could find out what Faramir would say, a guard entered the room. The man met Faramir’s eyes. He and Boromir both stood but through some silent communication, Boromir cautiously retook his seat. Faramir turned to Éomer. “I apologize…”

“No need. I know the demands of leadership too well. If I have your promise for tomorrow, I need no more.”

“You have it then,” Faramir replied. “Éomer, lady Éowyn.” He bowed his head to each in turn, then glanced differentially to his father before retreating after the guard.


	3. Rohirrim Poetry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter for Faramir Friday! (almost...missed it by a few minutes)
> 
> And with it, another beautiful mood board from @shinnewn on twitter

Faramir stood outside the citadel, eyes tracing across the people who passed by as he watched for the two nobles from Rohan. He felt a smile tug at his lips as he saw the lady Éowyn turn the corner. She caught sight of him and practically ran over. Faramir found himself smiling even more. She had a freeness he had never seen.

“Hello, Lady Éowyn.”

“Would it be impossible for you to call me merely Éowyn?” she asked.

“It would be improper but not impossible,” Faramir replied, he tilted his head slightly, “Do you wish it?”

“I do,” she replied.

“Then perhaps when it is only you and Éomer I can call you merely Éowyn,” he said, then glanced up as Éomer caught up.

“Hello, Faramir.”

Faramir found himself smiling slightly at the man as well. “I thought I would show you around the stables first, I know they are nothing to the ones of Rohan but…”

“But you thought to make us comfortable by showing us something familiar?” Éomer asked, “Lead the way, Faramir. You know well enough no citizen of Rohan would refuse to see horses.”

“I meant no offense…”

“And you gave none, I am serious,” Éomer replied, “Show me these horses of Gondor so I can spitefully compare them to the wonder of the mounts of the Rohirrim.”

“Brother,” Éowyn said, “You tease too much. You will scandalize our host.”

Faramir ducked his head slightly, “I assure you, we have teasing in Gondor as well.”

“I’m very glad of it,” Éomer replied, “I am hopeless at remaining serious all the time.”

Éowyn shook her head at him but started toward the stables.

“How are you finding your stay in Minas Tilith?” Faramir asked, falling in step beside Éomer.

“Enlightening.”

Faramir frowned at the tone. “Is something not to your liking.”

“May I be candid with you, Faramir?” 

Faramir frowned. He had not sensed any reticence before. “I would that you were.”

“I fear I am not the representative your father wished came from Rohan.”

Faramir sensed that Éomer was studying him, watching his reaction. He nodded slowly. “I fear I cannot speak for my father…”

“I do not ask you to,” Éomer said, “Not speak for him or explain him. I know he does not approve of the Rohirrim freeness of nature and my existence is an offense to him.”

The young guard of Gondor was startled by his honesty, “If my father has given offense…”

“You know he has,” Éomer said, “And you know too that it is his way. He treats you with no less dismissal.”

Faramir stopped walking, but it was Éowyn who answered, “Brother, you go too far.”

“Perhaps my sister is right. My conversation went poorly with your father this morning and I fear I am in no mood to be pleasant company. Please, let us see the horses and I will trouble you no more with my unrestrained thoughts.”

“I…” Faramir fought with the words to reply. “I…”

“No, I have given you an impossible task,” Éomer replied holding up a hand, “Let us see the horses and tread no more where I have not been invited.”

Faramir nodded his head. They fell into silence as he guided them, broken occasionally by Éowyn’s questions. She had a curious mind that spoke to Faramir’s own nature though she entirely lacked his reserve. Éowyn seemed to ask every question that came to her mind. Faramir fell easily into explaining the city to her as they walked. Occasionally, he glanced to Éomer to find him smiling fondly. The anger in him seemed to fade as they walked.

Then Faramir opened the door to the stables. Éowyn ran past him to where her horse was boarded and greeted her with open affection. Éomer moved slower, but still went straight to his horse. Faramir followed in last, watching them. The Rohirrim had a connection to their horses that was renowned throughout the kingdoms, but it was one thing to know and another thing to witness. Faramir’s eyes lingered on Éomer. He watched the man, younger than him, but already harder in ways he could not articulate, go to his stead, Firefoot. Any layer of armor Éomer wore around his soul fell away in the presence of his horse. He petted him and the horse nuzzled Éomer’s neck in return.

Éomer glanced back his way and Faramir dropped his gaze immediately.

The guard of Gondor headed to his own horse, Westwind. She was a beautiful brown mare. She was not the fastest horse nor necessarily the strongest. His father had given her to him dismissively, but in this Denethor had been wrong. He had underestimated her tenacity. Few horses were more loyal or showed more genuine intelligence than Westwind. Faramir petted her lovingly and she responded by bumping her nose into him affectionately in return. “Hello, my love,” he said quietly. She responded with a quiet wheeny.

“You have an uncommon way with your stead,” Éomer said. Faramir jumped. The voice was closer than he expected and he turned to see the man leaning on the door of Faramir’s stall.

“I would not think you would believe it uncommon,” Faramir replied.

He saw Éomer’s smile turn up at the edges, “Not uncommon in Rohan, but uncommon in Gondor.” Éomer took a step forward, “May I?” Faramir nodded his assent and the other man approached, examining Westwind.

“She has the blood of Rohan in her,” he said after making a circle.

Faramir felt surprised. She was a horse with unknown origin, considered worthless to his father and given to him as a slight. “Can that be so?”

Éomer raised an eyebrow at him, “Do you doubt me?”

“I am merely surprised,” Faramir replied, “She was not thought to be of good breeding.”

“And yet she is your horse?”

Faramir felt trapped in a snare created by his own words. He answered carefully, “I see a value in her that is not widely recognized.”

Éomer finished his circle around the horse and stopped in front of Faramir, “Then you have a better eye for quality than most. She is of noble Rohan blood or I am no Rohirrim.” Faramir realized that Éomer had stopped close to him. Faramir was not aware of the customs of Rohan as they related to comfort with physical distance. So he could not be certain if this was a trait of the Rohirrim or of Éomer himself, but the man seemed to have little concern for Faramir’s breathing air.

Faramir stepped back.

Éomer tilted his head to the side as if considering him. “I would love to see her in the open air. Would you ride with me, Faramir?”

“If you wish it, Éomer,” he replied. Éomer was staring into his eyes with an intensity he could not comprehend. He broke it off, looking across the stable to Éowyn, “And if your sister is agreeable to it.”

“Éowyn would love nothing more, I am certain. You cannot truly know a Rohirrim or any citizen of Rohan if you have not ridden at their side.”

Faramir’s eyes returned to meet Éomer’s again without his say.

“Will you ride with me then, Faramir?”

Farmir saw his words clearly. Éomer had asked ‘will you know me.’ “If you will it,” he said again, but his voice broke on the words. Faramir swallowed. The young guard of Gondor forced his eyes away, “Saddle the horses,” he said to the stable boy. He stepped out of the stall to allow the young man in. The movement broke the strange tension that had been mounting between Éomer and himself.

It felt not a moment too soon, though Faramir did not know what would come of the tension or what it meant. He knew only he did not want to learn the shape of it. The tension was safer as an unknown.

They did not speak more until they were riding. Faramir relaxed on the back of Westwind. She responded to his every movement and he quickly fell into rhythm with her. He rode toward the gates of the city, with Éomer and Éowyn at either side. It was not long before he heard another horse join them and saw Beregond.

“Hail, Lord Faramir,” said the guard.

“Beregond,” he replied, “Do you have business outside the city?”

“None but the safety of one of the steward’s sons,” he replied, an eyebrow raised, “Who was going to go unguarded outside the city.”

“Am I being considered a threat?” Éomer asked. Faramir’s eyes flickered to him, but he found only amusement.

“No offense is meant,” Beregond replied, “But I regard all who are unknown to me as a threat to my lord, Faramir.”

“And more to your honor that you do,” Éomer replied. His eyes went to Faramir, “Your guard’s loyalty speaks to your honor as well.”

“To his I agree.”

“Not to your own?”

“Lord Faramir is modest,” Beregond said.

“So I see,” Éomer replied, “And also hospitable. So I will compliment him again. You are a man of honor, and your guard’s loyalty shows me thus. Now if you disagree a second time you risk insulting my judgment. You must choose between your modesty and your hospitality.”  
“Brother!” Éowyn said, her tone sharp, “You are being uncommonly cruel this morning. If you are troubled by your dealings with the steward, then work it out on the practice fields. Do not take it out on our host.”

Éomer laughed slightly, “Have I been too cruel to you with my praise, Faramir?”

Faramir found at once he was overwhelmed by the praise and strangely drawn to Éomer’s laugh. He shook his head and tried to focus on the question, “I am not offended.”

“Again, you show yourself too kind,” Éomer replied, “I will push my praise on you no longer, for I fear I risk the wrath of good Beregond.”

“I feel little need to save my lord from your kind words,” Beregond replied. Faramir glanced at him, questioning, but Beregond merely smiled in return. “If you wish to praise him I will say only you do not go far enough.”

“Pay my brother no heed, Faramir,” Éowyn said, pulling her horse up beside his. “He is thought quite clever by the Rohirrim and it has gone directly to his head.”

“My own sister?” Éomer asked.

“I promise,” Faramir cut in before any of the three of them could go on, “I do not need protecting from the jests of your brother.” Faramir watched the young woman of Rohan study him.

“Yes,” she said then, “I think you do not.” She turned, “Fine brother, you may continue to pursue this course of speech if it is amusing to you, merely know you make yourself a fool.”

“Your speech cuts me, sister,” Éomer said, but Faramir caught a twinkle of humor in his eyes, “Perhaps I make myself a fool to amuse Lord Faramir.” The Éomer’s gaze turned fully to his and caught him before he could look away, “Do I amuse you, Faramir?”

Faramir felt a touch of heat in his cheeks. He struggled to find a way to answer, but Éomer raised his hand.

“Do not answer. We can say all we need with a ride.” Éomer leaned over the neck of his horse, and Fleetfoot responded at once, trodding ahead. Faramir pushed Westwind to increase her steps and stay close by. They rode on until they were through the gate, out into the countryside.

_-_-_

Éomer rode beside Faraamir as they left the gates of the White City. At one point, they had to fall into two by two formation to allow some merchants a chance to pass. Éowyn fell back to ride beside Beregond, and they had just stayed like that. Éomer glanced at the man by his side. Faramir seemed to be quietly communing with his horse as they moved, focused his full attention on the ride. Éomer found himself watching every movement of the other man.

Some of the reticence faded away from Faramir as they left the rodes of Minas Tilith. Once they were riding across the grass, toward the trees, the young steward’s son began to seem more at peace with himself. There was something of the natural about Faramir, and with the green cloak around his shoulders, Éomer could imagine him fading into the trees.

“I see my sister is not alone in liking to be out of doors,” Éomer said. Faramir looked up and met his eyes, a question there. “You seem at home.”

Faramir frowned, “The city is my home.”

Éomer shrugged slightly, “Be that as may, you are more at ease outside its walls.”

Faramir frowned, considering his words. Then he tilted his head back, letting the sunshine caress his face, his dark hair falling back. “It is easier to breathe,” he said. Then he turned his face and met Éomer’s look once more, “You think me strange?”

Strange had not been the word Éomer would have used at all. He searched for a way to respond that would not make Faramir retreat. He wanted to find the words that would bring out more honest answers from the man. The young guard of Gondor was a maze, he wanted to learn to navigate. “I think you would fit in surprisingly well along the Rohirrim.”

“I fear I do not have a natural openness that seems a necessary aspect to Rohirrim culture,” Faramir replied.

“Ah, but openness can be sowed.” Éomer let a smirk touch his lips, “If one is inclined to cultivate it.”

Faramir glanced his way, but did not rise to meet the challenge. He looked ahead instead, moving his horse to draw closer to Beregond. He exchanged a few quiet words with the guard before glancing at Éomer. “Let us turn to the side for a while,” he said, then he pulled ahead to lead. Éomer quirked an eyebrow in question, then pushed his horse to match Faramir’s pace.

They fell into an easy rhythm. Éomer was a better rider than Faramir, as by right he should be, but the difference in skill was less than he had expected for someone outside the Rohirrim. Faramir was deeply connected to his mount, and Westwind carried him with the passion of a horse who knew herself well-loved. The young steward’s son guided them by a path that existed inside his mind alone until they rounded a curve of a hill, and the Anduin river stretched out in front of them.

Faramir slowed Westwind and dismounted at the riverside, gently guiding her to the water. He petted her neck as she reached down to drink. Éomer joined him, glancing over. “You know we have seen the river.”

“I thought it would interest you more than the architecture of the city,” Faramir replied, glancing his way, “Even given you have seen it.” Then he said a quiet, “Was I right?”

Éomer smiled, “Your insight rings true again, Faramir. Yes, I prefer nature to the city as much as I suspect you do.”

Faramir frowned, “I do love to be in nature, but it is not quite as you perceive it.”  
“Is it not?” Éomer asked, “I am listening, if you would explain where I err.”

“I love the city, in all her ways.” Faramir turned his face up to the light again. “She is a masterful work so full of history.” A shadow clouded his features. Éomer knew there had been an amendment to the sentence, a point of clarification that was dropped before it could be made.

He started to ask, but stilled his voice, saying instead, “I understand the archives are a particular love of yours.” He had troubled Faramir enough for one day, and there was too much fresh beauty in the air around them for Éomer to be willing to ruin it with his curiosity.

Faramir turned to face him and the image rather took Éomer’s breath. The sunlight was falling through the leaves of the trees to frame Faramir in its golden glow that made the dark of his hair shine and cast colors into his grey eyes. Éomer took a step forward without quite meaning to.

“Yes, I love the archives,” was his only reply.

“I cannot see the appeal, but anyone can see that they stir a light in you,” Éomer replied.

“A light?” Faramir replied, furrowing his brow as he considered it, “Perhaps what you see is a…a…” Faramir seemed to be reaching for a word in the air between them, “A…”  
“Passion?”

Faramir looked startled, “Hardly, my brother is the passionate one.”

Éomer nodded, considering him, “You are the one with a head firm upon your shoulders?”

“I do not know if I would say so far as that.”

“Why, do you leave no description for Faramir? How will there ever be songs written about you if you refuse to take up any mantle?”

He saw the slightest amused quirk of Faramir’s lips, but it remained slight. “I do not think many a song will have that worry, for few will find need to use it.”

“I very much doubt that the songwriters of Gondor will leave you unadorned,” Éomer replied. Faramir tilted his head, his eyes questioning, but the shape of the question never left his lips. Éomer nodded, trying to encourage the words into the open, but Faramir turned away and Éomer saw him look to where Éowyn stood, making her way into the river by standing on tall rocks. Beregond stood on the shore by her, keeping a close eye lest she fall. Éomer’s gaze left them and returned to Faramir again.

He reached past the man and petted Westwind’s neck, which put him far closer to the other man when Faramir turned back. The guard of Gondor subtly jumped in surprise. Éomer looked into his grey eyes.

“I have troubled you again.”

“No,” Faramir said, “You have not troubled me.”

Éomer stifled a sigh. He felt like he was circling a horse that would not quite let him approach. Faramir’s reserve remained entirely intact. Éomer did not know why this troubled him so much.

“I heard Éowyn ask you to visit Rohan,” he said, changing the track entirely.

“She asked me to visit someday, yes,” Faramir replied, “I of course, would need ask leave.”

“You have it,” Éomer replied, “For my part and I suspect, my uncle would agree, but I heard too you are hesitant.” 

“There is much to do in Gondor,” Faramir replied, “I cannot easily obtain leave to travel with no greater purpose.”

“A shame,” Éomer replied, “Traveling to Rohan with no intentions other than to be swept away by her beauty is the true way to see her.”

Faramir’s smile warmed, “I can see that it would be.”  
“Perhaps one day there will be peace enough for you to have it,” Éomer said. When Faramir looked away and Éomer sensed that no verbal answer was coming, he changed course again. “You did not tell me why the archives are particular draw for you.”

“Faramir is looking for lost stories,” Éowyn said. Éomer had not heard her approach, but she was walking along the shore of the river toward them, her shoes in her hand and her bare feet

wet.

“Lost stories?” Éomer asked, turning back to him.

“Nothing grand,” Faramir replied, “I was merely telling Éowyn that I am attempting to collect lore that has been lost.”

“And what lore has Gondor been careless enough to misplace?” Éomer asked. He wondered if he had misstepped, but Faramir smiled.

“Misplaced? Perhaps, or never contained. Stories that are rare.”

“I sense that you have a more clear goal,” Éomer replied, “And that you have no intention of sharing it. Have I been insightful more accurately this time, Faramir?”

“I believe you have.”

“A thing sought after but not shared,” Éomer replied, “And do you alone know your task?”  
“I alone and a traveling lore master,” Faramir replied.

“A mystery indeed,” Éomer replied.

Faramir tilted his head slightly, but Éomer caught a hint of a smile. The steward’s son gave his horse another gentle pat on the neck, and left her to enjoy the water. He began walking, weaving in and out of trees. Éomer followed behind him. He thought if Faramir drew up his hood, he would disappear into the woods, so at home he seemed there.

A gust of wind rustled the trees, cascading small leaves into the air around them and moving the branches overhead enough that light and shadow played across Faramir’s face. Éomer was mesmerized. He took a step closer and Faramir turned to look at him, a leaf catching in his dark locks. Éomer, without thinking, reached to dislodge the leaf from its perch. Faramir stilled and Éomer’s hand lingered for a breath before he pulled it back, releasing the leaf. Éomer lowered his hand to his side and there were no words, no clever jokes or gentle banter he could conjure to make this moment anything other than what it was. And Faramir was a mystery to him, he could read not a single thing from his face, could find nothing telling in the grey of his eyes.

“My lord,” Beregond said, his boots crunching the leaves behind them. With his voice, he shattered the tension that built up like the feeling of lightning in the air between them. Éomer stepped back and Faramir turned quickly to his guard. Beregond’s face was a mask of confusion for a moment before practiced neutrality overtook his expression. “If we are to return our guests before their hunger becomes a traveling companion, we must depart soon.”

Faramir gave a tight nod and headed back. He did not meet Éomer’s eyes as he passed him.

As they mounted their horses and turned toward the White City, Éomer worried that he had broken something irreparable between them. He worried he had found the line, pushed further than Gondor propriety would permit them to return from, but Faramir fell into easy conversation with Éowyn as they traveled. If there was new distance between them, Éomer could not detect it. Though a few times he felt the weight of eyes and turned to find Beregond’s studying gaze fixed on him.

They returned to the stables and Éomer dismounted, his eyes going to Faramir. He wondered if he should say something. Was there something to say? As quick as he was able, he got Fleetfoot settled and left the stall to catch the young guard before he could leave.

He nearly collided with Faramir who was standing there, waiting for him.

Faramir took a step back, “I thought you and Éowyn may want to experience some of our local delicacies for lunch.”

“We would love to,” Éowyn said, coming over before Éomer could reply.

Éomer let a smile settle on his face, “What did you have in mind?”

Then Faramir was once again their leader, guiding them through the city streets. Beregond peeled off to attend his duties. They did not travel far before Faramir stopped in front of a bakery. The rich aroma of bread and spices filled the air around them. The youngest steward’s son glanced to the baker woman and began ordering. Éomer noticed two things at once Faramir knew her by name and that she lit up with a smile when she spoke to him.

Then Faramir returned to them with arms full of baked goods that set Éomer salivating.

“Can we sit on the wall?” Éowyn asked, moving over to a low wall that sloped down toward the road. Faramir smiled.

“We must, it is an essential part of the experience,” Faramir replied, “I read many books on this wall, eating exactly the food you are eating now.” He helped Éowyn up on the wall, then merely leaned on it himself. Éomer frowned.

“And? Are you grown too serious to join her?” he challenged. Éomer pulled himself up beside his sister. Faramir looked at them and then his eyes flicked to the people on the street around them. For a moment, Éomer assumed he could not tease the man into following. Then Faramir smiled and pulled himself up at her other side.

Perhaps, he thought. The young son of Denethor was not as serious as he wanted everyone to believe. At least not at every moment.

“So, Éowyn, will you tell me more of your home?”

“Oh, I am certain my brother can tell you far more of import.”  
“Perhaps,” Faramir said, “But if I wanted stories with less political import? What can I not read in a book?”

Éowyn’s smile was radiant. “The fields of Rohan smell of the wild Simbelmyne and when the wind picks up, it catches blooms and scatters them through the air. There are many a hill and dell, so many you can explore until your heart is content. The wild horses will steal your breath.” Éowyn reached over, touching his arm. Éomer saw Faramir tense in surprise for just a moment before merely smiling. Éowyn went on then, going from descriptions to stories. She told Faramir of her childhood adventures with Éomer. Faramir was captured by every word and Éomer was captured by watching him listen.

Éomer did not know how long had passed before Faramir looked up at the sky, reading the time in the light. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I can linger no longer. I have duties to attend.” He got down off the wall and Éomer followed him.

“Will we see you at dinner?”

Faramir met his eyes, and Éomer found no more of the unreadable tension there. His look was soft and kind. “You will.”

“Until then.”

“Until then.”  
He bowed to Éomer and then Éowyn before turning and heading back toward the training fields. Éomer watched him until the crowd of city dwellers blocked him from view.

_-_-_

Dinner held similar to the one before, with Éomer at Denethor’s side and Faramir with him. He had passed the moments between their parting waiting to be once again in the man’s presence. However, a messenger had arrived with word from _Théoden_ , and Éomer found a heaviness in his heart.

Things were not well in Rohan.

He forced himself to focus on the food and the company, but he found worry making him quiet. Faramir’s perceptive eyes kept flicking to him. He had just begun to say something, anything to answer the question in that gaze, when Boromir leaned back in his seat and regarded him.

“When do you plan to return to Rohan?” Boromir asked, swirling the wine in his goblet, “I understand you received tidings from home? Do they change your plans?”

“Unfortunately, they do,” Éomer replied, “We leave on the morrow.”

“So soon?” Faramir asked. Éomer turned to meet his eyes and found disappointment there. Faramir had sat forward slightly. Then a gate closed back over those emotions, and he glanced at Denethor before sitting back.

Éomer let his gaze travel to the steward of Gondor as well. Denethor had seen Faramir’s slip and noted it, Éomer could read this clearly on his face.

“It merely means you will need to visit Rohan sooner, Faramir,” Éowyn said.

Faramir did not look at Denethor this time, but Éomer could read in the tension of his shoulders that he was aware of his father’s gaze. Faramir reminded him of prey, aware that it had fallen into the gaze of a hawk, from which there was no escaping.

“I, unfortunately, have many tasks to attend to here, Lady Éowyn,” he replied, “I will of course come to Rohan if my duty bid me.”

Éowyn frowned, but Éomer gave a small, tight shake of his head and she stilled her words.

“A shame!” Boromir said, and his voice was boisterous, holding none of the care of the other people at the table. “I had looked forward to challenging you to a race.”

“I hope that you mean on foot,” Éomer said, seizing on to the break in tension, “For I would hate to believe the oldest steward son deluded with the idea that he could defeat a Rohirrim in a race on horseback.”

“You have not seen me ride,” Boromir

Éomer sensed that while Boromir may cover it with a swirl of his glass and the implication of being deep in his cup, he was loud to draw attention away from Faramir. It was a dance Éomer witnessed now, and he knew with certainty it was a well-practiced one.

“And you have not seen me take full advantage of the speed of my horse,” Éomer replied, “For it would be a sight to behold.”

Boromir laughed, the warmth of it filling the room, and he raised a glass to Éomer. He continued to fill the air with the sound of his voice, and Éomer noted, that Faramir did not speak again for the remainder of dinner.

_-_-_

Faramir could not let Éomer leave without speaking to him once more, even though he had no sense of what he intended to say. He let Boromir take over entertaining their guests at dinner and let himself fall into his thoughts.

Better fall into thoughts than into whatever trap his father intended for him.

It was after dark before they all left the table with the general attention of retiring for the night. Faramir left as he normally would, but hesitated around the corner, waiting for his father to leave. He saw the steward walk out of the hall and make his way in the opposite direction. Then he saw Boromir come out with Éomer. They were both laughing, but he saw the way that Éomer’s eyes searched the hall.

For a moment he let himself wonder if the horse lord was looking for him too.

Éomer said his goodnight to Boromir and Faramir stepped slightly back into his line of sight. Éomer’s rooms lay in the opposite direction, so he would know shortly if he was the object of Éomer’s search. Then the other man’s eyes arrested on him. Faramir was too far away to hear what was exchanged between the man and his brother, but he saw Boromir glance his way and nod, before turning to retire to his rooms.

Éomer walked the distance between them, tilting his head slightly. “Were you waiting for me, or did you find some nefarious purpose to loiter in shadows?”

Faramir ducked his head. He had waited and Éomer had come to him. It was what he intended, but he no more knew what would come next than the man in front of him. There was no plan, no words. It was foolishness. The kind of foolishness that Faramir was not prone to, and he did not quite know how to understand his own actions.

“Did you wish to speak with me, Faramir?” this time, Éomer’s words lost all teasing. He was so earnest. This was a man who had slain orcs on the plains, who commanded Rohirrim to his lead, who rode astride a mighty Mearas. Yet he could speak so openly, laying forth with ease the types of emotions Faramir had so long striven to obscure in himself.

Faramir did not know how he could answer this man.

Yet Éomer had come to him.

He could not let his last words to Éomer be meaningless platitudes spoken over dinner under Denethor’s ever-watching eyes. “There is one view of the city you were not yet afforded,” Faramir said, the words coming suddenly out of him as if by their own making. He forced himself to met Éomer’s eyes, and caught something lighting up in them.

“And you wish to show me this view?” he asked.

“If you are to leave on the morrow, we do not know what other chance you will have to view it.”

“Then I pray you, lead me,” Éomer said, “And I will follow.”

“You do not wish to know what it is?” Faramir asked.

“If you wish me see it, I need no more coaxing,” he replied.

Faramir felt something clench around his heart, something that made it almost hurt with each pound, yet it was not an unpleasant feeling. He knew at once that he had never felt anything like this before. He gave a wordless nod and motioned for Éomer to follow.

This was how the youngest steward son found himself leading the horse lord of Rohan to the tower overlooking the sparkling White City of Minas Tilith on his last night in Gondor. It was the same tower where Faramir had spoken to Mithrandir, confiding his heart and soul to the traveler all those years ago. Now as he walked to the edge, the city was just as lovely as that night.

“Is it not beautiful, Éomer?” he asked. Faramir felt all his love for the city rush through him anew, rekindled by the moment and the crisp night air and the stars overhead. Rekindled too by the idea of seeing it for the first time through Éomer’s eyes.

When he turned to the man, Éomer’s eyes were on him, not the city. Éomer smiled gently and then stepped forward, taking in the view at Faramir’s side. Faramir’s eyes traced his face, watching every flicker of expression as he took it in. He saw a soft kind of wonder. “It is no wonder the city inspires poets.” Éomer’s eyes found his. “Though I know no wordsmith who could capture a night such as this.” He leaned back on the wall, his attention leaving the view and fixing wholly on Faramir.

There was a question in his eyes, Faramir could see it. He looked away from that question, his eyes going up to trace the constellations.

“I am leaving tomorrow,” Éomer said then.

“You are leaving tomorrow.”  
“You should come to Rohan.”

Faramir finally looked back down, “I cannot.”

“I know,” Éomer said, something sad in his eyes, “Yet I wish it was not so.”

“Why?” Faramir asked, and at once he wished the treacherous word had not escaped his lips. Éomer stepped closer and they were closer than they had been since he stroked the leaf from Faramir’s hair.

“I wish to know you,” Éomer said.

“I am not so special.”

“I don’t agree.”

Faramir shook his head. He felt confused, disoriented, wrong-footed in the moment where he could not quite get a grip on the conversation. He survived by reading conversations well. That was how he avoided what he could of his father’s wrath, but he could not in this moment find steady ground.

“I have troubled you,” Éomer said, “I did not mean to. We have so little time left together, perhaps we can forget my foolishness and not waste another moment on it.”

Faramir looked up and Éomer was so close. So close it made the air hard to breathe, “And what would you do instead?”

“May I touch you?” Éomer asked. Faramir was startled. He gave a tight, uncertain nod. Gently, as if handling something that could shatter, Éomer touched Faramir’s hand and held it between his. Faramir stared at their hands, the way he knew it should feel wrong to touch another man like this, and yet the way it did not feel wrong.

He pulled his hand away and took a step back, “Can I…can I ask you a question?” He did not look at Éomer to see his reaction to pulling away, but the other man’s answer was as soft as ever.

“Anything.”

“It is not a proper question.”  
“I prefer those,” Éomer said, and Faramir heard in it that his humor had returned. The young guard of Gondor broke away from the tension in the air that seemed to hold them both still and walked back to the wall. He pulled himself up on it and let his legs dangle off the side. It was not a careful position, but Faramir did not feel like being careful that night.

He heard Éomer slowly come over and join him until they were side by side, their hands on the wall in the space between them, almost close enough to touch again, but not touching.

“How did you know that you were…that you were you, Éomer?” Faramir asked, getting to the words in the only way he knew how. He felt Éomer regarding him.

“I do not quite know how,” Éomer replied, “I knew only that the way others saw me did not fit the self that I knew. Like when you outgrow armor in those moments when you first try it on again for the last time and it is not right, except I felt like that from the beginning.”

Faramir’s shoulders sagged, “You were always sure then.”

“It was not that I was always certain or that I knew exactly,” Éomer said, “But most of the time, yes I was sure. But many people are not so. You do not have to be certain all at once.”

Faramir’s eyes whipped up, “ _I_ don’t have to be?”

“I mean,” Éomer said, holding up a hand, “No one has to be certain. It is…it is like a river for some. Twisting this way and that until it arrives at a destination. I have known many Rohirrim to journey long before they find an understanding of their true selves. Whether they are as me, or those for whom neither male nor female has any meaning, or those who love others than what is expected of them.”

Faramir heard in his words much of what he knew of Rohan, but spoken with such an open love. This was not the portrait of debauchery his father painted with his words. He heard to beneath the words something missing. He stared at his hands.

“It seems in Rohan more…” he searched for unfamiliar words, drawing from things he had read in the volumes he collected in secret, but had never spoken allowed, “That there is more room to love on the plains of Rohan, and more possible selves to be, than there is in Gondor.”

“Yes, I believe it is so.”

“Yet all must love someone?” Faramir asked. His voice even to his own ears sounded raw. He wanted to hide from his question but he did not let his gaze leave Éomer’s face. He watched the other man consider him.

“I do not possess all the knowledge that exists of such matters,” Éomer said, “But there are those who find no partner.” He considered him, “I would ask a question, but it would offend your sensibilities.”

“I have already asked many improper questions this night. I would not stop you from yours.”

“Do you speak of love or of desires of the flesh?” Éomer asked. It was so stark a question, Faramir felt himself flinch. He wondered how this man could have grown up to speak so openly.

Yet would not Boromir also speak so easily of such things if Faramir had ever let him?

“I mean the latter.”

“I do not know,” Éomer said, but there was nothing dismissive in his words, “But I cannot imagine that it would be impossible.”

“Invisible they must be, if they are not known even to Rohan,” Faramir said.

“I do not contain all the knowledge known to Rohan,” Éomer replied. “Faramir…I will not ask you more. I can see how it pains you. I have no desire to pain you further, but I would say one thing more and then the matter may be dropped between us if you give me your leave.”

Faramir looked into this man’s eyes, “You have it.”

“Do not hate the questions you are asking, do not hate yourself for asking them,” Éomer said, “In Rohan, we have a saying, you cannot blame the tracks for being found.”

“I am not in Rohan.”

Faramir saw something unsaid go through Éomer’s eyes, but the man was true to his word and did not continue the conversation. Instead, he said, “You do love Gondor.”

“Deeply,” Faramir replied, letting his gaze travel over the city.

“Even though your questions would be more easily asked elsewhere.”

Faramir turned back to meet the other man’s eyes, “I do not wish to abandon half my soul to find the answers for the other half. Gondor is as much a part of me as my questions.”

Éomer nodded slowly, “Once I could not imagine feeling conflicted about my home.  
“Something has changed?”

“Perhaps more the shadow of change is felt in Rohan, and I do not yet know which way the wind will blow.”

Faramir nodded. He knew what it felt to be uncertain of the future.

“How do you survive it?” Éomer asked, “The conflict?”

“I believe in my home,” Faramir replied without hesitation, “In what she can be even if she is not it yet. Things will change when Boromir is steward.”

“The hope of it is a light upon your face,” Éomer observed.

Faramir’s brow furrowed. “My brother is a good man and beloved by all,” Faramir replied, “I would see the kingdom when it is in his hands. What he will create.”

“You have such faith in him.”

“Yes,” Faramir said, “Believing in him comes more easily to me than breathing.” Éomer’s smile in return was warm.

“I look forward to his Gondor, then.”

The conversation lapsed, carried away in the gentle night breeze where the words spoken in quiet would become the tinkling of chimes in the city below. Quiet grew between them, quiet not silence with its heavyweight, but a soft, pleasant quiet. At some point, they both sat again at each other’s side. Faramir watched the moon move through her nightly phases before he finally let his words venture into the space between them. “It is late. You have a long journey in the morning.

“Faramir,” Éomer said, “I do not know when again we will meet. There are few things in this life I fear more than regret.” He leaned toward Faramir. “May I be bold?”

Faramir hesitated. He felt on the verge of agreeing to something dangerous and yet, he nodded.

“I would ask if I may kiss you.”

Faramir’s breath stilled. He should say no. Every derisive word in Gondor, every lesson from the loremasters, every sneered jib from his father told him he should say no. He was not certain that kissing was something he should want. Did not wanting to be kissed mean he should desire for more, for the physical things that lay beyond it? He did not have the answers.

There should be no hesitation.

Faramir hesitated.

“I have overstepped, I always do,” Éomer replied. “Éowyn says my boldness belongs on the battlefield not in the conversations.” He stood and Faramir knew he would take his leave. Knew at first light he would leave.

Nothing was promised them, certainly not that they would ever meet again.

Faramir stood.

“I would not say no.”

Éomer turned back, his face unreadable in the dark. “You would not say no?”

“If you asked.”

Éomer stepped closer and Faramir felt his heart begin to gallop in his chest. “May I kiss you?”

Faramir nodded. He was not certain Éomer had seen in the dark that surrounded him, until the man stepped forward and gently cupped his cheek. Faramir leaned into that touch. Then standing on the tower with the city at their feet, Éomer lord of the mark kissed Faramir second son of the steward of Gondor.

It was soft and small, asking nothing of Faramir. Éomer drew back quickly, but his hand lingered. It was Faramir’s first kiss and he felt weak in its absence.

“I have wanted to do that since first I saw you.” Then Éomer’s hand fell away, “Goodnight, Faramir.” Éomer bowed slightly and left.

It was a long time before Faramir found it in himself to move at all. His hand raised gently to touch his lips. He stayed on the tower until first light crossed the sky.

**_-_-_**

Faramir stared out the window as the Rohirrim rode away. He had said goodbye to the lady Éowyn, but could not bring himself to see her brother once more. Could not yet make sense enough of their last moment together to know how he would act if he tried to speak to Éomer as if nothing had changed.

“Do you look lustfully upon the men of Rohan?”

Faramir startled in surprise, whipping his face to look at his father. He had not heard Denethor approach.

“It is not like that, father,” Faramir replied quickly.

“Perhaps it is not the men of Rohan you look fondly on, but the women.”

Faramir felt his shoulders tense, “Father, Éowyn is a child.”

Denethor looked down his nose at his son, “I did not mean Éowyn.”

The steward’s son felt his muscles tense further until he was coiled beyond measure. “Father, Éomer is a man.”  
Denethor raised an eyebrow, “Oh Éomer is a man? Only so far as you are the pride of Gondor.”

Faramir flinched then, looking toward the floor.

“If you had looked lustfully after them,” Denethor carried on, “At least I would have an explanation of why you prefer increasing the collection of my books to increasing the line of my family.”

Ice ran through Faramir, settling in his gut. He knew this would come one day, knew too his time was running out before the expectation would come, but he had hoped for a few more years. “Boromir has no wife,” he said and felt immediately ashamed. He did not mean to bring his brother into this argument, but as always Denethor’s nostrils flared.

“Your brother is busy bringing honor to Gondor in other ways,” he replied, his voice cutting deeper than any blade, “And I know he will take a wife when his time is right. Can you make me the same promise?”

“Do you wish me to take a wife?” Faramir asked. He felt ill and cold. He held his body perfectly still like he was trying to avoid the detection of a predator.

“Would you take a wife if I willed it?”

“It is always my intention to do your will.”

“Oh is it always your intention?” Denethor asked, snarling, “Then perhaps you lack the capacity.”

Faramir closed his eyes, but forced them open again. The sign of weakness might be enough to cause his father to snap. He had to hold himself in tension until the moment passed. He could not let his cracks show when his father was in reaching distance of them. “I do not desire to cause you pain, father. If you bid me find a wife, I will.”

“I would rather a son who can do the most basic task expected of him without my bidding,” Denethor snapped. His words rang in the hall around them. Shame coiled with the ice of dread in his gut. Denethor took a step forward and Faramir flinched despite himself. He saw Denethor smirk at the reaction, and then step back away. “So, you would marry now if I bid it?”

“I will,” Faramir said, his voice quiet around the dryness of his throat.

“So do then,” Denethor replied. “Tell me the name of the woman right now and I will approve of her be she all the way down to a lowly beggar.”

“Father…”

“There is no such woman?” Denethor asked. “A man then?” He raised an eyebrow, “No? What is the matter, Faramir? Will no one have you?”

Faramir felt his strength break, what reserve he managed to maintain slipped from his fingers. He hung his head, shoulders slumping. “I know of no person.”

“So you do merely lack the capacity,” Denethor said, “Go away and trouble me no more, Faramir. Perhaps you may find comfort in the friendship of your books.”

Faramir bowed, ducking his head further to avoid Denethor seeing his tears. He was shaking as he escaped the room.


End file.
